Renegade
by Wayward-Hunter
Summary: Castiel doesn't know what he is and the "Righteous Man" in charge of an underground movement against Raphael's government may just give him all the answers he wants and everything he needs: a home to protect, a family to believe in and a reason to fight.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** a fusion of two other things: one is a book and another a comic-book. Hope people can sort of guess as the story progresses!

**Lyrics are from "Renegade" by Styx**

* * *

When he throws on his coat, he doesn't know what will happen. Will he be hunted? Followed? There is no telling what his fate will be, where destiny will take him. He has long since abandoned any pretense of hiding who he is.

He walks off into the street; Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

At least, he used to be…

Castiel walks down the darkening street and shoves his hands into the deep pockets of his trench coat. He squints into the dying shreds of hazy orange sunlight, huffs a heavy breath that plays as mist before his visage and widens his already brisk stride. It's too dangerous to stay out in the daylight, especially for someone like him. He crosses the gravel road and turns a right into what used to be a residential street. The houses are broken down, all rotten, termite-infested wood and broken windows; they stand symbolic of the society they all drown in, they stand as silent relics, sentinels of the impossible dream.

He stops mid-step on the sidewalk, frozen in place by the poster dangling in tatters on the grimy brick wall.

"Big Brother is Watching You" it says, Raphael's stoic face menacing in sheer tones of gray. Despite the inanimate object's muted threat Castiel turns and continues his path.

Things had changed drastically since the end of the Last Great War, most commonly known as the Holy War. Demons in possession of millions of wicked, sinful humans had decided that the angels wouldn't dare to hurt their father's most favored creation and all flocked towards those with any shred of grace or goodness in their souls. They then commenced the "Diem aeternam Annum" or Year of Eternal Night, the token name for the, actual, four years of slaughters and murders that ran rampant, first through America then Japan and it quickly spread through all the nations.

The murders were gruesome and the failure of government action led to political toppling, military dictatorships that rose and fell within hours of each other. Soldiers of every kind pulled gins out on each other, on their family and friends in fear of the dark, black eyes that would twinkle in glee as entrails were yanked out of still breathing bodies.

The world was in complete and utter anarchy. In Britain civilians had taken justice into their own hands as the little clusters of hunters that had lived there began to spread the knowledge of how to protect themselves from these vile fiends. "Utinam Christo apud vos" became a common phrase between the people of the healing lands, _May Christ be with you_; both a test and a prayer, a pseudo blessing in the trying times.

The churches had, of course, been the first to go. No one had attempted to preach the word of the Lord. No one had tried to pray. In their minds, in their hearts, they knew that there was no use. No one would save them but themselves.

Disregarding the bubbling conflict in Asia, the Eastern Hemisphere was slowly getting the upper hand on their problem. The Western hemisphere, however, was in complete and utter chaos. Canada was slowly but surely staving off the rampant, disease like plague of possessions by remaining devout. South America had not been inflicted as harshly as other continents, their rates only slightly higher than Africa's; Central America was being quickly evacuated to the south or to the Caribbean. Whole cities began to crumble under the quick abandonment and nature soon took control of the villages that were left vacant.

Which left Mexico and the United States.

Mexico, despite the trafficking, was a very religious country. Each portion of the country had its own ancient beliefs, ranging from the old Mayan Pupul Vuh to the modern Catholicism. Mother's nailed rosaries to the doors and sent prayers. Some news reporters had filmed stories of wailing mothers that claimed that some loved one or another was possessed and released by an angel, someone of infinite light with only a humanoid figure.

Then, the stories began to spread. People in Canada, the Czech Republic, Portugal and Laos began to tell tales of these bipedal forms of pure light that would appear in densely occupied areas known to be inhabited by the black-eyed harbingers of destruction and disappear—leaving only the confused and healthy remnants of missing family members, mourned friends.

Then it happened. Three years and the levee had broken and the floods of hell—and heaven—had been set loose.

The infestation in America had been the worse—the black eyed spawns had taken on victims high up in the echelon. In the week before the "Noctis de Angelis" the possessed had managed to launch thousands of bombs that were all directed towards Central America in order to cut off the "Human Plague" from fleeing to the north or south.

That's when the "Noctis de Angelis" occurred. In an attack worthy of the Blitzkrieg tittle, a thousand 'stars' flew across the sky, wiping out the possessed in the thousands. That night billions of people had died and all across the world the whispers of Angelic interference became shouts of glee.

Finally, their saviors had come.

The legions of angels all began to become _human_ using the very same methods of possession their demon predecessors had used. A war was fought for the remainder of the year, bloody and brutal; it had taken out much of the lands and billions died. The population dwindled with the low food shortages, plagues and famine. The one night it ended. Just as it had started, the "Night of the Angels" had ended.

The Angel's reign began in what they called Adamah, the collective lands of the United States, Maxico and Canada.

The people under Raphael's strict, iron-fisted rule called it "Regni Sanctus Terror"—the Reign of Holy Terror.

Since then, almost five years since the start of the Holy Empire, the people were kept under Raphael and his cronies' control. England became its own empire, along with Asia, and Africa and South America simply flourished without the use of a military.

Castiel was once one of the soldiers, so loyal to his father and then Michael and finally Raphael. That time, the time of marching and stoic pride were long over. Had anyone in his former garrison seen him now, surely they would not recognize their beloved leader. He was a shell of a man—and it hadn't bothered him much, still doesn't to the very day because he was the last of the angels to be made directly by their father's hands and had always been… well, different.

And now? Well, now he was something else entirely. Not quite human and definitely no angel.

Not since that final mission, that last battle…

Castiel shakes his head as he makes it around the corner, narrowly avoiding a duo of angels; though definitely one of the newer generations of angels they were clearly less powerful than he. Still, Castiel shuddered at the thought of slaying one of his brethren and chose to evade rather than fight. So he turns another corner, bypassing a few more posters—some of them covered in navy paint—and into a dead end alley way.

"Hello there, little lost lamb." A voice jeers from behind Castiel and he scowls, turning his head to look at the angel leaning against the filthy brick wall. "ooh, you're a pretty one aren't ya'?" The angels flexes his burnt sepia wings behind him, a way to signal his interest and lets out a low whistle. He turns to the sound of footsteps to his right, floppy wavy brown hair following his head with a bounce. "Oi! C'mere a second." The angel turns and leers at Castiel who feels instantly soiled by the filthy look in the dirt brown eyes.

"Well well well," the second angel pipes up. "Little birdie is out after curfew!" The angel grins, something dark and twisted that should never touch a servant of the Lord's features, and starts to crowd Castiel towards the dead end. "We know just what to do with the likes of you…" This angel's creamy wing smacks into the other's.

"I am on my way home and would like to leave unbothered" Castiel murmurs, going through a thousand ways to get out of here without killing the angels.

"Did you hear that! He's got quite the voice, eh? Still, I think I'd rather stuff his mouth with my-" The Sepia-winged angel gasps and his wings snap wide, hitting the walls and bending to their maximum length. His eyes go wide and eternal light shines from the openings and into the darkness of the fresh night. His mouth opens into a mute scream and the same blinding white leaves his mouth until only wisps of energy escape his pale, bluing lips.

"I think the man said he wanted to go home unbothered," a new voice pipes up, slightly gruff and weary. The body falls in a heap on the floor and even with his weakened grace Castiel can tell that the man is alive, only slightly injured across his back though the angel is fully gone, wings and all.

"You stupid little _fuck_ I'm going to rip your _heart out!_" the Second Angel growls as he turns, angelic blade slipping seamlessly from his black jacket sleeve. The man doesn't hesitate as he ducks and pivots to swing his dagger across the angel's throat.

There's no blood, Castiel knows this. A gold liquid will pour out of the wound to seal it but he is proven quite gruesomely wrong as the slit begins to spew crimson life. The body falls and all traces of grace seep out like the blood that is rushing through the man's wound. Castiel falls to his knees, shocked by the knowledge that some sort of weapon _exists_ and completely forgets about the man that had just saved him and assaulted what are essentially his brothers.

He shuffles forward and places his hands on the wound, eyes filling with silent tears as he feels heat course through his body and scorches his hands. He feels the man from before holding his shoulder in a bruising grip, trying to haul him away from the body but he resists with all his might until he feels the unsteady heartbeat beneath his trembling hands steady into a somewhat steady yet low pulse.

"What the hell did you just do?" he growls into Castiel's ear but Castiel can't muster up energy to speak. His hands feel like they're on fire and he can't breath—something's dripping from his nose and Castiel has a pretty good idea that it is blood. "Shit, did I just save a fucking angel? Bobby's gonna' fucking throw a bitch-fit, fuck, _fuck_-"

"I am not an angel." Castiel mumbles as he looks up at his savior and future executioner. Light brown hair bordering on dirty-blonde, bright emerald eyes and somewhat darkened skin. He's handsome in an unkempt way but something about him is ringing bells in Castiel's mind. He's in no state of clear thinking, though, and in this frame of mind reaches up, takes the blade into his palm and squeezes.

Blood, thick and darker than healthy, begins to slowly ooze from the wound and down the blade. The emerald eyes go from suspicious to slightly alarmed. The parted lips go tight into a drawn line and the man's features go dark.

"What the hell are you?" He growls, pressing forward on his knees, blade still in his grasp but not brandished as an immediate threat. Castiel can only close his eyes and sigh in resignation before meeting the stranger's eyes once more.

"I do not think I am completely sure of what it is I am, either." He responds and the stranger seems to accept this strange answer. It is true; Castiel is perhaps more confounded than his savior. "And since you asked me about my persona and identity I believe it is only customary for me to ask the very same variance of the question. Who are _you?_"

The man seems to regard Castiel for a second, like he's trying to figure out if he's real or not before turning away to look at the bodies still lying unconscious behind them. "They call me Righteous Man." He says, finally. "I don't think saying my name is safe at the moment."

"Mmm, in that case then you may call me…" Castiel thinks for a heartbeat before answering, "Sachiel." Not convincing on the 'not an angel' front but it'll do for sentimental purposes that Castiel would rather forget. The Righteous Man looks at him for a moment, assessing, like he's trying to look through Castiel's clothes and skin to his heart. They stare at each other for what feels like millennia until Castiel tries to push himself up into a seated position. His hand stings and he falls back on his bum, a low 'ouch' escaping him as the appendages begin to throb.

"Shit, buddy, your hands ain't looking too hot right now." The stranger says and Castiel tilts his head at the hint of a southern drawl. "C'mon, you're coming with me. There's gonna' be a little show tonight and I think you'd enjoy it."

* * *

They're sitting on top of the roof of an old hotel on the outskirts of the city. Castiel can't really remember how they had gotten there so quickly but this Righteous Man clearly knew his way through the city. He had helped Castiel get through the city and up the building without a word, offering help when he noticed Castiel's hidden winces. So they sat on the roof of the hotel, the dark sky drowning the stars in eternal darkness. The moon hangs limply and Castiel mourns, mourns over the death of the heavens, once so beautiful, once his home.

"Alright, so just check out the western borders of Raphael's _Cathedral_" The Righteous Man snickers as he sits next to Castiel. "Sachiel, keep your eyes over there and give me your hand." Castiel does as he is told mindlessly and feels something cool and soothing is smeared across the burnt flash of his palms. He tries to ignore the odd sensation sinking in his stomach as the Righteous Man finishes both his hands but doesn't let go, fingers slotting in the loose spaces between Castiel's as if they are meant to be there.

"Aaaand: action." The righteous man grins, something a little wild, a little crazy and Castiel can't help but feel a little breathless at the sight.

He's tired of his body betraying him so he lets it go and looks back to where _something _is happening.

From here he can see lights flashing down the streets, a few meters away from each other and music playing, guitar rifts and drum beats drifting from the loudspeakers on each corner.

_Oh momma I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law  
Lawman has put an end to my running and I'm so far from my home  
Oh momma I can hear you a'crying you're so scared and all alone  
Hangman is comin' down from the gallows and I don't have very  
long_

Castiel's face scrunches as the flashes of lights end at the end of the street, right at the corner of the cathedral before he feels it—an insistent tugging deep inside of him and a loud cry in his ears.

"_BROTHER! HELP US!_"

_The jig is up the news is out they've finally found me  
The renegade who had it made retrieved for a bounty  
Never more to go astray  
This will be the end today of the wanted man_

"What have they done?" Castiel chokes out, his hand clenching onto the Righteous Man's hand in a bruising grip. The man glances over at Castiel, a hint of amusement and wonder in his eyes. Somehow, deep inside, Castiel senses fear and a twinge of mischief within the strange man's mind.

"We've started the revolution." He says simply, as if his words hold no strength, no value. "The fight for free will."

_Oh momma I've been years on the lam  
And had a high price on my head  
Lawman said get him dead or alive  
Now it's for sure he'll see me dead  
Dear momma I can hear you a'crying  
You're so scared and all alone  
Hangman is coming down from the gallows  
And I don't have very long_

"Revolution?" Castiel asks, confused. He had seen revolutions before, from Julius Caesar's assassination to Napoleon's reign but nothing like this.

"Humanity under Raphael is slavery." The Righteous One says. "It's not what angels are made for, not what mankind was meant to undergo. So we're fighting back." Dean looks over at Castiel, like he knows something Castiel doesn't. "And you, well, you look like you're already fighting a war of your own, aren't you Castiel?"

_The jig is up, the news is out  
They finally found me  
The renegade who had it made  
Retrieved for a bounty  
Never more to go astray  
The judge will have revenge today  
On the wanted man_

"No." Castiel murmurs and he tugs his hand away from the Righteous Man, eyes wide and eyebrows drawn together. "That is not my name." _Not anymore_. "I am-"

"Trust me, you are not in danger." The Righteous Man whispers and his hand clings harder, a grip Castiel knows he can easily break free from but he is beguiled, he is confounded into staying. "We can provide you shelter and nourishment and a way out—anything you need. We're an uprising, yes, but we are also a network made to help people escape." The emerald eyes bore into Castiel's and he knows that the man isn't lying.

"I don't want to leave."

_Oh Momma, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law  
Hangman is coming down from the gallows And I don't have very long_

"We can help you get what you want, get to where you want to be." The Righteous Man says and his voice sounds so sincere Castiel can't help but to believe in him. Believe in this futile attempt to overthrow the regime his brother has honed over billions of years.

"I want…"

But Castiel doesn't know how to answer that. He wants his friends. He wants his brothers. He wants his home; he wants his former self and he wants everything to _just be over.  
_

_The jig is up, the news is out  
They finally found me  
The renegade who had it made  
Retrieved for a bounty  
Never more to go astray_

"I want to fight." Castiel finally says and The Righteous man smiles, looks on into the distance.

_This'll be the end today  
Of the wanted man  
the wanted man  
_

"We banished them." The Righteous Man says and he doesn't notice the minute tremor that passes through Castiel. "We used some sigils we found in some ruins and through some intel." He says nonchalantly, as if throwing this huge fact in Castiel's face isn't turning his world upside down. "Anyway, we should start going to the base, music's almost over and Raphael's little soldiers will be out and about soon."

Castiel rrises and leaves with this man, a thousand questions burning in his mind as they leave. Most importantly, however are the revelations of the night:

There are people willing to fight Raphael, he can _actually help_ and perhaps the most shattering of all: _Gabriel is alive_ and maybe, maybe Balthazar is too.

They were the only angels other than Raphael and Castiel aware of banishing sigils.

"How- How did you know my..?" Castiel trails off, unsure how to posture the question. The Rightous Man stops at the door to the stairwell and turns to look at Castiel.

"Your real name?" He finishes and Castiel nods. "Oh, well…" The man pulls off his shirt and Castiel gasps as the red hand-mark on the man's shoulder, the only blemish on his tan skin, makes Castiel's hand feel hotter.

"My name is Dean Winchester and you, well, you're the angel that saved me."

_and i don't wanna go,  
oh no  
dont let 'em take me  
no no_


	2. Chapter 2

When Castiel opens his eyes he thinks he was dreaming. He knows that it isn't a usual occurrence for him, isn't the norm, but sometimes it happens when he's had a particularly rough day and when he is worn down to the bone. His head hurts something fierce, a throbbing pain that matches his hands in tempo, like someone cracked him over the head at the sound of his heartbeat. His vision, still blurred, makes the room feel like its spinning and he can't rid himself of the sickening nausea of vertigo that grips his bruised body.

It hurts to think, hurts to try and shift his body so he's lying on his back instead of his side but the cot underneath his bare chest is lumpy and—

Wait, _what?_

Castiel sits up quickly, nearly tumbling off the lumpy military bed when full consciousness hits him like a freight train. His shirt is still on, the crisp whiteness dull in the darkness and it must have slipped up his torso while he slept, but his suit coat and over coat are not on his person or near his sleeping place.

He gets up slowly, not quite trusting the bed to not creak, and manages to stand bent slightly forward despite the protest of his entire body. His eyes aren't accustomed to the darkness yet but he can make out a stairwell to his far left and some support beams centering every corner a few feet away from each wall. There's a table and—well, damn—six people sitting on chairs in the absolute darkness.

"What is your problem, son?" one of them murmurs. Castiel tries to make out the type of person he is by voice; old, definitely male, past his fifties, weary and annoyed undertones are blanketed by genuine concern.

"He's just fussy 'cause his boyfriend don't-" Female, early to mid-twenties, southern accent that's both teasing and subdued.

"You stay out of this, Jo." Oh. This one, this one is hauntingly familiar, Castiel thinks as he slowly prowls towards the closest support beam. He breathes in, exhales and tries to find a way to go to the next beam closer to the stairwell. If he can stay hidden until then, well, he'll be free.

"Listen boy, we know this person means something to you but if you don't get to explaining why there's an unconscious _tax-accountant_ on the spare cot then we're gonna start making assumptions and we ain't holdin' back no punches, ya' hear? So git to explaining you idjit." The man huffs and Castiel hears a chair scrape slightly against the floor.

He holds his breath and lets a heartbeat pass before glancing around the beam. No one has moved from their seat. He turns back and slowly slinks across the concrete floor towards the beam. Three feat away he makes a final leap and flattens himself against the hard steel. The group are still talking, or the three that have already spoken are whispering in low rushes. The other three shadows seem equally immersed in the conversation without adding input.

Seeing the distraction Castiel nods to himself and rounds the rail of the staircase and takes them as quickly as he can.

I'm going to make it, he thinks, a clean getaway. They haven't noticed—

And that's when the door six steps ahead of him opens.

"Cas-" The tall silhouette, outlined in the light of the room above, starts but Castiel panics and jumps three steps, shoves his elbow into the man's stomach and grips his forearms tight. He quickly yanks the man down onto the step below him and shoves him against the wall with a loud crack, effectively alarming the other residents of his attempted departure.

"Sorry" He mumbles and quickly runs up the last steps and into the lighted room. He squints his eyes and shields his face with his forearm and passes over the counter quickly. The windows are boarded and the door looks nailed shut but there is no mistaking the shining hinges that will allow his escape.

"Cas! Castiel, don't go, we need you to listen!" the man from the doorway wails and his huge, lumbering form tries to catch up to Castiel.

"Sam!?"

"It's Cas he's trying to-"

Castiel throws the door open and rushes out, his mind set on _escape-safety-escape_ and his surroundings shift into something hauntingly foreign, maliciously familiar. _A rickety house somewhere on the north end of Adamah, the walls rotting and a man behind him, for protection._

A hand pulls at his shoulders and he instinctively flinches as he sees the image, the memory of wide ebony wings alight with holy fury. _You have done many wrongs today, little Castiel_, it taunts and Castiel whimpers as he surges forward, hands pulling him back.

"Let me—Let me go!" He shouts and swings behind him mindlessly, but he is alone and the three men running into the street watch Castiel collapse on the ground in a hyperventilating heap, tears streaming down his face while his body shivers on the ground. "Please, please—make it. Stop this. J-just… let me go, Raphael, please…"

"it's okay, Castiel, she can't reach you here. You're safe, brother. Safe." One of the men says but Castiel's eyes have a distinct faraway look to the clear blue, a hazy glaze of haunting memories. "You're safe. You are safe." His hand is gentle as it courses through his ruffled strands and he slowly complies, a nudging sensation niggling in his mind before everything fades to black.

This time, waking up is so much easier and less frightening. His head no longer thrums and even his hands feel soothed. Castiel slowly sits up, his bones cracking nicely as he shuffles on the same cot as before. There are voices again, three men and one woman, but they're hushed and low whispers meant to befuddle interlopers.

"We're sorry for the whole mess from earlier," the woman with bouncy brown hair and kind yet fierce eyes says softly, turning from the group of men before her to Castel. "Didn't think you'd react that way since we've known ya' for so long but I guess it musta been the whole," she flaps her hand up and down before getting closer," banishing, running 'n healing that went on before ol' Dean-o broaghtcha' back."

"I don't-" Castiel starts but the woman raises her hand and places it on his cheek, not minding the weeks' worth of stubble against her palm. "I don't understand."

"Of course not, darlin'. You went missing a few months back, had us all in a tizzy!" She smiles softly and lets her hand drop to Castiel's knee, warm and reassuring. "Even Gabe was thrown through a loop, Balthazar went out to search for you and couldn't find a thing."

"G-Gabriel…?" Castiel whispers and one of the figures that was standing back launches itself at him, tossing him back onto the cot as his head makes a shallow thud against the wall. The body is familiar, the soft dirty-blonde hair under his chin and against his cheek, the green jacket—it causes something in his heart to soften and Castiel feels himself finally relax a little more.

"You are an idiot of epic proportions and if you ever go out and _don't return for four months_ then I will personally hunt your feathery ass down and-" but Gabriel's voice chokes off into a pseudo sob-gasp that leaves him huffing for breath through half-whimpers. He raises his head and anguished honey-gold eyes widen as they study Castiel's features, tears hanging on through tattering self-control. "_What did they do to you?_" Gabriel breathes, disbelieving.

"You—how are you _alive?_" Castiel chokes out, perhaps more befuddled than Gabriel. "You—centuries, Gabriel, _centuries passed_ and where were you?" Castiel's eyes flicker with an old pain behind cold betrayal. "What- what is the meaning of all of this?"

Gabriel instantly recoils, tripping on the female's still kneeling form, and falls on his behind, arms catching and cushioning most of the impact. His eyes are wide, head shaking side to side as he mumbles to himself.

"You don't- you don't remember?" Gabriel asks, face scrunching up in confusion. "Balthy and I? Jo and Ellen? Garth, Bobby, Charlie—_fuck_, Sam and Dean?" Gabriel sounds close to manic, voice reaching tones so shrill it reminds Castiel of shattering glass and static television screens in sleazy hotel rooms.

"I can't-I don't…" Castiel's internal struggle with any of the names except for Dean's and Balthazar's must have shown on his face because Gabriel is sitting up and placing a warm, reassuring hand on his knee.

"Don't fret, Cassie." Gabriel smiles but the grin doesn't reach his solemn eyes. "We'll get Balthy to come on down when he returns and we'll discuss things later. Ellen will stay with you for now while I take Garth and Sammy here to see what we can do upstairs." Gabriel gives his knee a little squeeze and gets up, giving Ellen a sad, dejected glance before leaving.

"I don't understand what is going on…" Castiel sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I—Gabriel is alive, I know I should rejoice but I need to know what is going on. I suspect that I will only become more muddled if I prolong my exposure to these trying times. However, I cannot discern what may have been a dream and what is actually happening. Ellen." Castiel murmurs, looking up into the woman's worried gaze," may I have my clothes returned to me and the pleasure of your company?"

"Of course ya' can, Cas, and if ya' have any questions just feel free to pipe up. God knows what happened but if there's anything these crazy kids can do its fix ya'." Ellen smiles as she rises. Castiel watches her go through the room, flicking on the rest of the lights. The room brightens up considerably and Castiel slinks back on the cot, confused and worried but not suspicious or wary in any way.

"Where is this?" Castiel asks and Ellen pauses at a cabinet on the right wall, hands on the folded trench coat on the countertop.

"We're at southern Adamah, somewhere between where Arkansas and Missouri." Ellen says as she picks up the trench, drapes it across her arm and opens the upper most drawers. "This place is an underground bunker and upstairs is an old mechanic shop that doubles as a gas station. Hardly ever used anyway so we just use it as a meeting spot." Ellen shrugs as she approaches once more; handing Castiel a new shirt (faded black to the point of gray, lighter, almost white-gray words like lightening across the chest) she goes to the table and pulls up a chair closer to the changing man.

"Okay. What is the purpose of this base?" Castiel continues and Ellen pauses.

"Not sure if that's a good question to answer but here's what I think I can tell ya' without overrunning your little head with information: this base is where all of us meet to discuss what to do about Raphael and the whole sanctified military dictatorship he holds over humanity. At least, in these necks of the woods." Ellen answers finally, voice stern. "I think I can answer anything besides what we do here in TFW HQ." She shoots Castiel a little smirk that borders on teasing and plain amusement.

"How… How did I come here? How did we meet? Who—and what—is TFW?" Castiel blurts out, unable to stop himself. Ellen smiles patiently and Castiel reminds himself of the change of clothes currently awaiting on his lap. Ellen looks like she isn't leaving and Castiel can't bring himself to care as he picks the buttons of his white shirt down the line.

"You came here a long time ago; hell, you along with the Winchesters and Bobby? Y'all were the ones who started this whole business." Ellen keeps her gaze leveled on Castiel's eyes. "We met through the system of, well, _hunters_ I suppose is the best way to describe them. We've all got our stories, Kid, each n' erry one of us. And in the end, well, I guess we're more bonded by darkness than objective.

Like, take Garth. He's a hunter, right? His Daddy was one of the first to die in the Noctis de Angelis, his momma was a vessel—not for any demon, mind you, and he lost his little sister to Raphael's Imperial Kingdom. Charlie—Raphael's laws are tyrannical at best and deadly at worse. His ban on any kind of deviance from his twisted view of religion has cost more deaths than even the war. Charlie, well, I guess that's her story to tell when she gets up to the challenge

"Jo and I, well we were long part of the circuit since Her Daddy went out and never came back from a hunt. Bobby's been in this as long as the rest of us and Ash? Well, after the fall-out he came by the Roadhouse and just… never left. He don't talk much about his family and, well, we never ask.

Sam and Dean… where do I start with them? They got into this young, too young for such a dark business. They followed their Daddy's shoes after their momma died- she was one of the first victims of the Demons, I'll have ya' know—and they've been in it ever since. They're damn good at what they do.

Gabe and Balthazar came in way later, after TFW started and, well, things were tense. They were bonafide angels and Raphael is public enemy number one—and you managed to keep us all together, Castiel. You got people bonded in pain to work together to save the world, to protect the innocent. We wouldn't let your hard work get wasted, not even when you went missing. Not that it didn't almost break us apart but we figured either you'd come back or you were watchin' us and we sure as hell weren't gonna let you down."

Castiel pauses with the clean black t-shirt wringing in his hands. He's missing something important, he knows, something that's nagging at him in the back of his mind but he quickly dismisses the sensation and lifts the shirt over his head.

"Wait a damn minute-" Ellen rushes forward and grabs Castiel's arms, pushing the limbs aside to peer at his back with something akin to _sickening fear_ crossing her features. "'The hell is this?" She whispers, one hand raising to brush against whatever it is she sees.

Castiel's body is twisted in an odd angle, back twisting to the side while the bottom half of his body is seated forward. He tries to crane his neck to look at what Ellen is so engrossed in and finally remembers.

There are two grotesque scars running from the top of his shoulder blades to his mid-back; puckered remnants of what would be deep wounds, lighter scars like smaller scratch marks ruling out various weapons. He doesn't remember where the wounds came from or how long he's had them. Since the moment he had awoken some weeks earlier, alone and bruised and confused, he had known that somehow they were connected with his state of distress.

"I do not—"

"Ellen! You done yet?"

"Shit," Ellen cursed and she shoves Castiel flat onto the cot before standing up and brushing her hair back. "Yeah, Dean, we're done for now." Heavy steps shuffle down the stairwell and familiar hazel eyes glance between the two for a moment before resting on Castiel. Suddenly nervous, the man shrugs on the black shirt and stands up.

"Alright, c'mup here and get ready, bring Cas, too. We're gonna see what our next move is and some… debriefing."

Upstairs, as it turned out, was a bar. He hadn't noticed the far off clusters of tables against the walls but he remembers jumping over the counter in his rush to escape. The large window front is covered by thick curtains and the door has at least a few dozen locks on it itself. Castiel feels something stir the back of his mind, like a gap that has opened it's mouth wide to take him whole…

It's the one that had opened the door when Castiel tried to escape, _Sam_, that puts a large hand on his shoulder and leads him forward towards the stools at the counter. There are already people gathered there, and Castiel should recognize them, almost _does_ but they are strangers that have simply stirred the ashes of an empty memory.

Strangers, then, and nothing more.

Castiel sits, reluctantly, back itching with the throbbing of his scars and sends Ellen a small smile when she sits next to him by the end of the counter.

The righteous man clears his throat, taps his foot impatiently and rolls his eyes when the red-head three seats away shuts her laptop noisily. The man with the pseudo long hair and short hair and jean vest soothes the computer with a pout and silence finally falls.

"As you guys can tell, we've found Cas." Dean starts, motioning towards Castiel with his head. "We don't know what the hell happened or where he was taken but Castiel has no recollection, himself, of what went down."

The group remains silent despite the various glances made Castiel's way. He doesn't look away from Dean, though. Doesn't know if it's because he doesn't want to or because he can't.

"So far, we don't know what happened-"

"Don't lie to them, Dean," A soft voice says from behind the group and Dean's face hardens quickly into something scary, something violent. The woman in the doorway looks very militaristic in tight blue jeans and a brown leather strap crossing her chest holding a sword on her back, two belts crossing with holsters attached on either side of her hips and a worn out leather jacket. Her pale skin and dark attire is broken from monotony by her flaming red hair and bright green eyes.

"Anna," Gabriel growls, held in his seat by Balthazar's hand on his chest. Castiel tilts his head at the sudden tenseness in the room, at the stiff postures of those sitting to his right. Ellen's hand has taken a permanent residence on his left shoulder, tensing slightly as Anna's green eyes slowly make their way to Castiel. She looks at him cautiously, blankly, with just a hint of hatred that makes Castiel swallow thickly, makes his body shiver very slightly.

Ellen notices, of course, and squeezes again.

"You know what it means," Anna begins again. "No one gets captured by Raphael and leaves unscathed."

"Anna, you better get to your god-damn point, girl," Ellen growls.

"No," Sam breathes out, looking over at Castiel with a look of _abject horror._

"I'm saying that Castiel wasn't left to live out of the goodness of his heart," Anna looks back at Dean and Castiel feels something _surge_ inside of him. It might be jealousy. "He's either bugged or he sold us out."

The silence that returns is deafening.


End file.
